by Eric Flint
Ariel was puzzled. "What for? When you want light, you flip a switch. When you want light and can't get it—like in a tunnel in a Maggot raid—that silly thing will be useless. Won't even make a good bludgeon."
Fitz shrugged again. "Like you said, humans are all daft. That old lady, for sure."
But Ariel had already leapt onto the table. Though disgruntled, she wasn't going to leave even a faint possibility of loot unchecked.
She lifted the lid. Then, squeaked sheer glee.
"It's full of chocolates! And—!"
Ariel reached in and plucked out a little sample bottle of Grand Marnier. Then, clutching it to her chest, she replaced the lid and perched herself atop the lamp. Looking, for all the world, like a guardian demon.
She gave Fitz a slit-eyed stare.
"I'll share the chocolates—maybe. If you're sweet to me. But the booze is mine."
Fitz rolled his eyes. "Rats!"
"It's important!" insisted Ariel. "There's not going to be any of that human folderol in this romance." Now, she looked positively indignant. "Won't ever find a rat—sure as hell not a rat-girl—getting her stars crossed. Much less her loot. That silly crap's got to go."
Fitz leaned back in the pillows, chuckling. He thought he understood now—a bit, at least—of the weird old woman's last words.
"Genie out of the bottle! One way to put it, I guess."
"Why do humans have so many useless words?" grumbled Ariel. "And what's a 'genie,' anyway?"
"You are." Fitz thought about it for a moment. "Or maybe we are."
THE END
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